Second Chance: A Dark Tale of Urban India

Chapter 177: Joining the Dojo

***South Delhi, Vasant Kunj, Sreelata Mall — 5:30 PM***

The black sedan rolled to a stop across the street from an aging five-storey commercial building.

Kenzo glanced through the windshield and pointed toward the structure.

"That is the target property, Rohit-sama. The warehouse is on the second floor, while Dozo occupies the fourth."

Rohit studied the building silently.

Earlier, he had spent far longer inside Kuruyami than originally intended. Before accepting the assignment, he had insisted on reviewing every report available—previous negotiations, ownership records, redevelopment proposals, and failed acquisition attempts.

The reason was simple.

He wanted to understand not only why the Yakuza had failed, but also why they were so determined to obtain this particular building.

The answer had surprised him.

The management authority had already approved a large-scale redevelopment project for the entire property. The old structure was scheduled to be demolished and replaced with a modern multi-specialty hospital. Most of the owners had already accepted compensation packages and signed the required transfer agreements.

Only two remained.

Unfortunately, those two owners possessed permanent ownership stakes within the building. Under Indian property law, their consent was still required before the redevelopment could proceed.

And despite increasingly generous offers, both had refused to sell.

That alone would have been unusual.

What interested Rohit even more was that neither refusal appeared to be motivated by money.

Which meant there was almost certainly another reason behind their resistance.

The first was Astra Avionics on the second floor — the very company he had been looking for. They specialized in state-of-the-art drones and survelliance equipments, the same kind he had once purchased.

Its owner was currently overseas and not expected back until the final week of February. Rohit had briefly considered visiting the manufacturing facility mentioned in the report, but without knowing who currently handled day-to-day operations, the move carried little value.

Patience was cheaper than a wasted approach.

The second was the dojo on the fourth floor — Martial School Ronins, a Japanese-style martial arts academy.

It specialized in judo and karate, while offering kendo for weapons training using reinforced bamboo swords.

Seven years in operation, it had built a strong reputation and deep roots in the local community. The owner had poured his soul into the place and clearly understood its value.

According to the reports, he had agreed in principle to vacate — but only after his dojo received the national recognition award it was currently nominated for.

One year.

That was his timeline. His terms.

The management had no interest in waiting.

Hence the Yakuza involvement.

Exactly what the organization hoped to gain from the hospital redevelopment project in Vasant Kunj remained unclear. Rohit had gone through every available record and found nothing definitive.

For now, he set the question aside. Something more concrete would surface eventually.

The real constraint shaping the entire situation was simple.

No violence.

The dojo owner needed to remain cooperative for future agreements. Any intimidation severe enough to sour the relationship now could easily collapse the entire arrangement later. Pressure had to be applied carefully — subtly enough that the final decision still felt like the owner’s own choice.

Rohit already had his approach.

Join the dojo.

Train legitimately.

Build proximity over weeks instead of days to avoid suspicion and garner trust.

Then identify whatever leverage existed, whether financial strain, professional pressure, or personal obligation, and apply it gradually enough that surrender resembled reason rather than coercion.

The secondary benefit was useful as well.

A dojo membership would provide a perfectly reasonable explanation for the physical capabilities that had begun raising uncomfortable questions since the accident.

Rohit looked at the building one final time.

"I’ll take the lead from here," he said calmly. "You can return."

Kenzo lowered his head once in acknowledgment.

Rohit stepped out of the car, adjusted his sleeves, and crossed the street toward Sreelata Mall.

***

The stairwell opened onto the fourth floor, and Rohit heard the dojo before he saw it.

Sharp impacts of practiced strikes echoed down the corridor.

A steady count rang out, Japanese terms blending naturally with Hindi instructions.

Deeper inside, bamboo practice swords cracked against each other in quick, disciplined bursts.

Rohit stepped through the entrance.

The training floor was far larger than Rohit had expected for a dojo tucked inside a mall.

Polished wooden flooring stretched across the entire space, spotless and carefully maintained, the kind of place kept clean out of discipline rather than necessity.

The high ceiling allowed full throws and weapon work without restriction.

The dojo was neatly divided into three active sections.

On the left, twelve students practiced judo in pairs across thick mats.

Their movements were controlled and repetitive — grips, balance, and throws executed with quiet focus.

Senior students practiced full throws while newer ones drilled basics under the watchful eye of an older trainee.

In the center, nearly fifteen karate students moved in synchronized lines.

A senior instructor called out counts as they executed sharp punches, kicks, and combinations. Their white uniforms were crisp, and their kiai shouts cut cleanly through the air.

On the right, the weapons section was active.

Eight students in protective armor sparred in rotating pairs, the hollow crack of bamboo shinai echoing at irregular intervals.

Two others sat nearby, adjusting their gear while waiting for their turn.

Equipment racks lined the far wall with almost military precision — bamboo swords arranged by size, armor stacked neatly, everything in its place.

A framed piece of Japanese calligraphy hung above the changing area.

Rohit stood at the entrance, quietly observing everything.

Near the front wall, seven or eight students rested between rotations.

Some stretched quietly while others spoke in low voices.

One sat focused entirely on rewrapping tape around his wrist with practiced care.

Three of them noticed Rohit first.

Their eyes moved over him instinctively — civilian clothes, composed posture, bandaged hand, and a lean frame that revealed little at first glance.

One trainee leaned toward another and muttered something under his breath.

A few quiet laughs followed, enough for Rohit to get the impression that he had already been judged the moment he walked in.

The junior instructor completed his circuit and approached. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, lean and confident, with a blue belt tied around his waist.

"Ashish Sinha," he introduced himself, extending a hand. "Junior instructor."

Rohit shook it firmly. "Rohit Singhania."

Something flickered across Ashish’s face at the surname — recognition quickly masked behind professionalism.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but assessing.

"I’m looking to join," Rohit replied. "Is the head instructor available?"

The instructor’s eyes flicked briefly to Rohit’s bandaged hand before returning to his face.

"Sensei is finishing a private session," Ashish explained. "He usually sees new applicants after seven. You can return in about an hour if you’d like."

From the resting area near the wall, one of the students spoke loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

"SENSEI doesn’t take everyone, you know. There’s a standard here."

His friend smirked openly.

Ashish ignored the comment completely.

Rohit briefly glanced toward the student who had been wrapping his wrists earlier. The rest of the group appeared to be around the same age, mostly college students. He then returned his attention to Ashish, who was still studying him.

"Starting fresh?" Ashish asked. "Or do you have any prior training?"

A small smile appeared on Rohit’s face.

"Not entirely fresh. I had an accident recently and lost portions of my memory with it. I know I trained before. The body remembers more than I consciously do." His tone remained calm. "I want to understand what’s still there and build from it."

Ashish’s expression barely shifted, but the faint disinterest from earlier disappeared.

"That’s an unusual reason to join a dojo."

"Unusual circumstances."

A brief silence settled between them.

Ashish glanced once more at the bandaged hand. "Recent injury?"

"Almost healed. Another day or two for the bandaging."

Ashish nodded slowly. "Alright! Come back tomorrow when—"

"How about a demonstration instead?" Rohit suggested, his voice calm and measured. "I’d rather not wait an hour just to learn whether I qualify. One opponent. Three rounds. Your sensei can watch live if he finishes early, or review a recording afterward. Either way, you’ll have something concrete to present him."

Ashish studied him more carefully. "Which discipline? We teach judo, karate, and kendo here."

"All three," Rohit replied calmly. "Your choice of order."

Silence spread across the nearest half of the floor.

Then the earlier student laughed openly. "All three? With that hand? Am I really tripping?"

The laughter spread wider this time.

Not everyone joined in, but enough did.

By now, several nearby drills had begun to slow as Rohit’s words drew attention.

A few judo students openly glanced in their direction.

The karate group at the back had abandoned formation entirely to watch. Even two kendo practitioners paused mid-drill, lowering their shinai.

Nearly half the dojo was paying attention now.

Ashish looked visibly uncertain. "I don’t think Sensei would approve of testing someone before a formal evaluation—"

"Let’s change the terms then. One opponent. One round per discipline. Saves both of us time," Rohit repeated in the same calm tone. "If I lack basic competency, you’ll know within the first exchange and your Sensei loses nothing. If I don’t, then the assessment happens today instead of next week."

Ashish studied him silently.

The student near the wall leaned forward. "Come on, Ashish bhai. Let him try. We’re all curious now."

More laughter followed, though less confidently than before.

Ashish slowly swept his gaze across the dojo. Abandoned drills. Students subtly shifting closer. More and more eyes turning toward the entrance.

Then he exhaled.

"Alright. One opponent for all three disciplines," Ashish confirmed, his voice carrying clearly across the floor. "Third-year student level. This is not a formal grading. Sensei’s decision remains final regardless of the result."

"Understood."

"And the hand?"

"It’s fine."

Several judo students exchanged amused looks. The karate group had stopped practicing entirely by now. Even the kendo students observed from behind their protective masks.

Ashish held Rohit’s gaze for another moment.

Whatever he found there seemed to settle the last of his uncertainty.

He finally turned toward the floor and addressed the same group that had been commenting earlier.

"Akhilesh. Sai. Ravi. Come here. The rest of you, clear three stations."

The laughter across the dojo faded almost immediately.

Rohit noticed the three students straighten at once, their casual amusement giving way to focus, while several senior students began separating from their respective groups.

Students shifted across the training hall, opening space around the judo mats, clearing the karate area, and making room near the kendo section.

The atmosphere had changed completely. The ordinary rhythm of practice had given way to the quiet anticipation of a dojo waiting to see what happened next.

Ashish turned back toward Rohit and gestured toward the changing room.

"Spare training uniforms are inside. Choose your size." A brief pause followed. "Your opponent will be ready when you are."

Dozens of eyes remained fixed on the newcomer standing calmly in civilian clothes with a bandaged hand.